Secrets In Between
by JustlikeWater
Summary: Twelve things John will never tell anyone. [Post-Reichenbach]


**A/N: Apparently rewatching Sherlock and writing fic at 2 A.M. makes me angsty, thus this little one shot was born. I'm really pleased with how this turned out, I hope you guys like it!**

 **Enjoy!**

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1\. When John is five years old, he believes his father is the greatest man on earth. His dad is a proud, handsome soldier with clear blue eyes, straight shoulders, and a steady, rumbling voice that demands the attention of everyone in the room. Confidence, power, and strength emanate from him like heat waves. Nothing that anyone says about Martin James Watson manages to shake that perfect image in John's mind; not the snotty kids who tell him his Daddy isn't around because he doesn't love him, nor the pretty women in the supermarket who say snarky things about his mum and father's marriage. None of that matters in little John's mind, because Martin is a superhero and he can never do anything wrong.

2\. John is six years old the first time he really cries. Two weeks before Christmas, his mum wipes her mascara-smudged eyes, squats down so she can look at his face, and tells him, "Mommy and Daddy aren't going to be together anymore, Johnny. Daddy's going away."

She doesn't explain why.

Later, John sits on their front porch with Harry in his lap and watches as their father tosses his luggage into the back of a cab. Even though their mother is mess, their father looks just as immaculate and unmoved as he always has. His parting words to John are " _Crying is weak, son. You have to be strong,"_ and then he disappears down the road, out of John's life forever.

As much as he comes to resent the man, John never forgets his words. For the rest of his adolescence and for the majority of adulthood, John doesn't shed another tear. For years he stays strong, fueled on the memory of his father's stony, unforgiving face. _It's weak, son,_ he said _. Weak_.

(John doesn't break until nearly three decades later, when his best friend phones him a suicide note and steps off the edge of a building. That night, he cries until he vomits.)

3\. John thinks Sherlock is beautiful from the moment he sees him in that lab, stooped over a microscope with his curly dark hair pushed back by his goggles, all brooding and mysterious like a present John can't wait to unwrap. He falls for him so violently, so absolutely, that he doesn't even realize he's head over heels until it's too late, until his sense is all gone and his heart is tattooed with miles and miles of Sherlock's name.

Wherever Sherlock goes, John follows. It's a back and forth between them: the sun and the moon chasing each other across the sky. Sherlock is the cool ocean that fills John's empty spaces and John is the rough sand that smoothes Sherlock's sharp edges. They make sense together.

Two halves of a whole.

4\. John doesn't speak for a whole month after Sherlock's death. And when he finally does, it's to croak _I love you_ in the doorway of Sherlock's cold, empty room _._ Street lights flicker along the shadowed walls, as if in reply.

(John sleeps in Sherlock's bed every night until his smell fades from the sheets.)

5\. After John moves out, he never visits Mrs. Hudson. He knows if he goes back there, whatever fragile sense of peace he's managed to carve out for himself will completely fall apart.

He's too scared to face his old life again. Too _weak._

6\. He contemplates his loaded Sig Sauer more than once.

7\. John doesn't realize how bad things have been until he meets Mary one warm afternoon in the park, when the two of them end up sharing the same bench by the lake. All she does is smile at him, just a quick twist of her lips and a kind look, and John feels something immediate and important shift within him. The black cloud over his head finally starts to give way to sunlight, and for the first time in a long time, the ache in his chest subsides.

"I'm Mary," she says.

He shakes her hand and smiles, feeling himself thaw. "I'm John."

8\. When he first realizes the depth of his feelings for her, they're sitting in her kitchen one Wednesday evening, sipping tea and talking about nothing in particular. He accidentally spills some milk on her sleeve as he passes her the little ceramic pitcher, but right when he starts to apologize, she cuts him off with a chuckle and pats his hand.

"It's nothing, John, stop fretting," she assures him with a smile. "You're so silly sometimes!"

And, strangely, that's when he realizes he loves her. Not in the fiery, passionate way he loved Sherlock, but in the lazy, comfortable way of old souls who've burned through their wild years and now only desire a steady companion who will float alongside them into oblivion. There is no burst of adrenaline or shiver of anticipation when he looks at her, just plain, uncomplicated complacency.

He tells himself it's enough.

9\. When John proposes, he keeps glancing at the door of the restaurant, irrationally waiting for a lanky man in a coat to storm in and interrupt this strange, unaccountably normal world he's created for himself. He expects the man to scowl and imperiously demand that John return to reality immediately. _This isn't your life, John_ , he'll say. _This isn't what you really want._

Except, nothing happens. The proposal goes without hitch, Mary cries and says yes, and John tries to smile despite the odd, hollow feeling in his chest.

10\. Every day after the wedding, John tells himself he's happy. On most days, he believes it.

11\. One evening, when Mary's out with the girls and he's left to his own devices in their empty flat, he digs up his box of Sherlock's old things.

Most of his stuff went into storage after John moved out of the flat, but a few of his more personal belongings, like his skull and his data journal, John decided to keep.

Carefully, he removes each item. In minutes, he's surrounded by ghosts of his old life.

Papers from Sherlock's evidence wall. Tea-stained notes on coagulated saliva. Post-its reminding John that they need milk. A battered brown wallet with _SH_ carved into the leather. His scarf. His coat.

(John buries his nose in the stiff black material and tries to conjure up that familiar scent of chemicals, smoke, and expensive soap. It almost works.)

There's his favorite comb, the bamboo one that he spent a ridiculous amount of money on. Stacks of half-crumpled music sheets from when he was composing. Textbooks covered in his snarky, spidery scrawl—"Incorrect," "Obviously not," "Archaic and irrelevant." His goggles. His microscope. His tiepin.

The packet of unopened cigarettes that he taped to the underside of the sofa and never got to smoke.

John misses him so much that it hurts. The longing is a solid, leaden ache that builds and builds, cresting over him like a wave and swallowing him whole.

…

Mary comes home early and finds him sitting at the kitchen table, staring blankly at a pile of seemingly random objects.

"Love, are you alright?" she asks in concern, hanging her coat up with a frown.

"I'm fine," he says, forcing a smile. "Just doing some last minute paperwork for one of my patient's prescriptions."

12\. It's something that he buries deep in the molten core of his being, something he knows so unquestioningly that no matter how far down he hides it, the truth of it will still bleed through his skin, seep into his dreams, color his thoughts. He isn't ashamed of the fact, he's protective of it. It's a precious secret, something he wishes to hide inside the unseen hollows of his chest, away from questions and inspections and judgment. It's something he knows he'll take to the grave, because this notion, this idea, this fact, this _secret_ , has dug its teeth into his skin and will never let go of him, no matter what. He holds it close to his heart like the treasure that it is.

It's fairly simple, actually.

John never stops loving him.

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 **A/N: Thanks for reading, everyone! Comment and let me know what you thought, I love hearing your feedback :)**


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